Future Tense
by Corvette Lead
Summary: Looking into the future our friends will grow, change, and even die. Here's one take on the subject.


Disclaimer: Don't own them. The main characters are the property of others. No profit made or anticipated.

7:30 a.m., Ben Taub Hospital on-call room, Houston, TX

When the ER charge nurse flipped the on-call lounge lights on she got the expected response, mumbling and swearing from the recliner on the far side of the room.

"Who turned the goddamn lights on? What time is it? Who's dying?"

"No one's dying. You've got a phone call. It sounds urgent."

The lanky second-year resident uncoiled his six-foot, four-inch frame and shuffled out the door to the nurse's station pulling a lab coat on over his rumpled scrubs. Taking the phone from the administrative clerk at the desk he didn't take a lot of time with formalities or pleasantries.

"What?" he barked into the phone as the clerk and nursing staff made a visible effort to get out of what they were sure was to be the line of fire.

A measured, calm but stressed female voice snapped back. "Don't get your bowels in an uproar. Calm down and sit down. I've got news." The completely unexpected voice of his sister immediately grabbed the young man's complete attention. He got an iron grip on his temper then mildly sat down. "Okay, what's up?"

"Its dad," she started, "he's been in an accident of some kind, and 'no' I don't have any details so don't freaking ask. All I know is Uncle Jimmy called and wanted me to call and pass along these instructions. Are you coherent enough to take notes? If not let me talk with the charge nurse."

By now the sleep-induced fog had completely lifted. "No, no, I'm alright. What's up?"

"Shit, you are worse than mom about making me repeat things. Dad has been in an accident on his damn motorcycle somewhere in western Maryland. He's being airlifted, probably to Baltimore. From the sounds of it things aren't good. Anyway, Uncle Jimmy told me to have you go to Hobby Airport and find the Avitat terminal as soon as you're off shift. Ether the foundation's jet will be there or a charter will be waiting for you. He'll have instructions for them by the time you get to the airport. Is that all clear?"

Still processing the news that his father was in a serious accident and he was about to be whisked off to somewhere unknown a logical question sprang up. "I can't just walk out of the hospital right now. I've …."

The voice at the other end of the line tightened. "No genius you can't walk out NOW. Listen to me: go to the damn airport when your shift is up. Don't worry about the next shift. Powers way above our relative position in the food chain will smooth that over. Now get to work then get your butt to the airport. I've got to go."

Before he could give the phone call more thought the doors from the ambulance bay crashed open as a team of Houston Fire Department paramedics rolled the first of three accident victims into the ER. Life goes on.

12:45 p.m., Avitat, Hobby Airport, Houston, TX

A raven haired receptionist looked at the somewhat harried looking young man in hospital scrubs lugging a roll aboard bag and guessed his identity.

"Dr. House?" When he turned and nodded the young woman picked up a clipboard and looked at the notes. "Your plane is being refueled right now, and the captain is checking the weather for your trip to the east coast. I would guess you will be ready to shove off in no more than another 15 minutes. If you would like to take a seat in the lounge I'll get you some coffee, or something stronger if you prefer."

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

A few minutes later a crewman walked into the lounge and introduced himself. "We are ready to launch. Can I help you with your luggage?"

He shook his head and picked up the bag. "Can you tell me where we're going? I'm still running to catch up with whatever is going on."

"No sir I can't for sure. We're filed for Baltimore, but the charter orders say we may need to go on to Teterboro. They will let us know as soon as they can."

4:55 p.m., Frederick Municipal Airport, Frederick, MD

A limo driver was waiting as the private jet came to a halt at the executive terminal.

"Dr. House, I'm your driver Mark. If you will give me a minute to get your luggage from the crew we will be on the road. Your mother called just a few minutes ago, and I am supposed to take you to Frederick House. It will just take a few minutes."

5:20 p.m., Frederick House, Frederick, MD

If resumes were taken at face value the occupants of the private room off the main salon at the posh watering hole overlooking the country club golf course this looked like a meeting of some medical who's who. Around the table left to right were gathered Eric Foreman, MD (current head of the neurology department at Johns Hopkins), Robert Chase, MD (currently serving as deputy director of the Royal Australian Medical Service, Lisa Cuddy-Ryan, MD (former CEO of Boston Brigham & Woman's Hospital), and James Wilson MD (Chairman Emeritus, Department of Oncology, Boston General Hospital).

Sitting on the table in front of this august gathering of healers were a couple of bottles of Famous Grouse scotch (largely empty), an ice bucket, and a gaggle of glasses dark with Scotch whisky. It didn't look good. It didn't look good at all.

Dr. Wilson (Uncle Jimmy) saw the door open as the attendant let the latest guest into the private suite and got up to walk to the door, but Dr. Foreman (Uncle Eric) was the first to speak.

"Son of a bitch Jimmy, all you need is a cane and it would be scary how much you look like your dad! Come over here, sit down, and get a drink. God knows we've all had enough by now."

James House, MD looked around the room and knew immediately it couldn't get any worse. The entire extended House family didn't get together much anyway, and this gathering of the clan coupled with the amount of alcohol in the room spelled disaster. Right away he knew he wasn't ready for the news.

No one had to break the news to Jimmy House because the door opened again admitting two striking women. The oldest still had naturally dark hair, a warm smile, and a drink in her hand. The younger was tall like her brother, close-cropped straight honey colored hair, and startlingly blue eyes that could cut through you like a laser.

"About time brother. Long time no see." There was no warmth in Camille "Cindy" House's voice when she spoke to her brother. "Thank Christ Uncle Jimmy knew where to track you down, and it's a goddamn shame it took dad getting himself killed to bring you back. Fucking welcome! Aunt Lisa pour me another one."

Allison Cameron-House took a long pull off the margarita in her hands and surveyed the gathering. A tiny smile touched the corner of her mouth and her eyes. The irony was obvious, painful, but obvious.

"Well now it sounds like an Irish wake as well as looks like it," she murmured. All in all, she thought, it's a pretty good day under the circumstances. Eric and Robert were in Baltimore for a seminar at Hopkins. James and I were both speaking at an NIH (The National Institutes of Health), and Cindy was home on leave.

'I guess,' Allison thought randomly, 'it was the perfect time for Greg to get himself killed on that damn motorcycle on the way back from a monster truck rally in West Virginia. This way only Wilson, God, and I will know his cancer was terminal.'

Finis


End file.
